


Case 181: The Adventure Of The Winter Soldiers (1900)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [233]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bacon, Cock Rings, Destiel - Freeform, Dildos, F/M, Gay Sex, Government Conspiracy, Johnlock - Freeform, Journalism, Justice, London, M/M, Military, Pie, Politics, Prostitution, Trauma, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-30 09:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17825807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ In a surprise move Mr. Harley Quinton asks for Sherlock's help. A gentleman he admires is finding his efforts to help wounded soldiers being frustrated - and the owner of the worst-painted house in London has tracked the problem to the offices of a certain lounge-lizard brother of Sherlock's. Someone is about to get burned......





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

At this relatively late point in my career as a consulting detective I had thought that surely there had to be few things out there which would surprise me any more – but the telegram that had come this morning was definitely one of them.

John squinted at me from across the table. 

“You have not touched your bacon”, he said, visibly alarmed. “Or your coffee. What on earth is wrong?”

I frowned. I was not that predic.... all right, maybe he had a point there.

“Much”, I said, scowling at my plate for no particular reason. “Mr. Harley Quinton asks us to come and see him.”

I knew the exact moment that my beloved placed the face to the name. Mr. Harley Quinton, man about town, someone who knew far too much about everybody and, from John's particular viewpoint, lived in a house that looked like an advertisement for a paint factory that had gone horribly, horribly wrong. On the other hand he served pie with drinks and lived near to where they made some of the best pastries in London, so there was that.

“Any chance of my buying some dark glasses?” John said hopefully as he passed me two of his four rashers.”

“His tastes are not _that_ bad”, I insisted plating up a meagre seven extra rashers.

He just looked at me as I decided to make it an even eight for neatness' sake. All right, his tastes were that bad. But for Mr. Quinton to actually ask for help from anyone – that did not bode well at all.

֍

I could feel John's horror at the exterior of Mr. Quinton's house, which seemed to have somehow achieved the impossible and become even more garish since our last visit. Thankfully there was a thick screen of trees around its medium-sized front garden otherwise the neighbours would surely have forced our host to tone things down a notch or ten.

The gentleman himself greeted us and sure enough he had coffee and pie just like last time. I had suggested to John after or last visit that eating pie with afternoon drinks was wrong in some way and had received a look of such utter and complete betrayal (plus a quivering lip that I myself would have been proud of!) that I had not been able to prevent myself from falling about with laughter. Fortunately that had been before we had picked up his pies at the shop that, the saints be praised, now did deliveries as far as Baker Street, so he had forgiven me.

I did not comment that someone was already on their second slice before the servants had withdrawn. It looked like we would be making a(nother) detour on the way home!

“I have a rather unusual request for you today, gentlemen”, Mr. Quinton said with a smile at someone's pastry over-eagerness. “Something I might have attended to myself had I not thought that you would enjoy it rather more.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“It concerns one of your irritating brothers. The smarmy one with the slappable face.”

John nearly choked on his pie. We had fortunately not seen Bacchus for some little time, for which both of us were extremely grateful even if Mrs. Singer occasionally bemoaned the lack of target practice. I should probably have tried to dissuade her from shooting at my own brother but somehow I had just never had the time.

John directing her to a place where she could buy her ammunition more cheaply had, perhaps, been pushing things ever so slightly.

“What has he done this time?” I sighed.

“Have you heard of 'Winter House'?” Mr. Quinton asked.

I shook my head and looked hopefully at someone who was mid-pie. John contrived to scowl around all that pastry and finished his pie before speaking.

“It is a place in north-east Hertfordshire set up by young Lord Edward Barnes”, he said. “He is the second son of Owen Earl of Brecknockshire; the fellow has six sons by three different wives. Lord Edward's brother James was seriously wounded in the Boer War; the government took a lot of criticism because some men died during the winter campaign and the newspapers speculated that it was due to Army incompetence in getting supplies to them rather than enemy action. Lord Edward sold his old house and purchased one large enough for himself, his brother and five of his brother's former colleagues who were also injured. It has since expanded to take some six more men; several of the capital's philanthropists are funding the venture.”

Mr. Quinton smiled knowingly.

“There is as you might have guessed rather more to it than the newspapers have revealed”, he said. “Matters are further complicated in that Mr. James Barnes has become enamoured of an American mercenary soldier who was fighting alongside him, a handsome young buck called Mr. Steven Rogers. Your Mr. Godfreyson would most likely pay for his services if he could; I believe the men jokingly referred to him as 'Captain America' for his rather overt patriotism, but there are many worse faults in a man. Sadly the vultures of the press were correct in their speculation over one matter; their commanding officer was instrumental in delaying those supplies because he disapproved of their 'lifestyle choices' and some of his men died as a result.”

I shook my head at the narrow-mindedness of some people these days. For all that later generations would come to portray the Victorians as puritanical in the extreme there was in fact much more tolerance than in later generations, provided people were discreet. It was not much to ask, really.

“I rate Lord Edward as a friend”, Mr. Quinton said, “as we share the same tendency to regard humanity from the outside as it were. He is a good fellow apart from his tendency to go on about his fishing holidays and the joys of standing in a river holding a stick for hours on end and no apparent reason, so the recent articles about him in the _'Telegraph'_ drew my attention.”

“What articles?” I inquired.

“The early coverage of his praiseworthy venture was much as you might expect from a London rag”, he said. “But two recent articles by an unpleasant fellow called Mr. Jonathan Snow have been not only negative, but have implied several things about my friend that I Do Not Like.”

I could hear the capitals there. I wondered idly if this Mr. Snow had any life insurance; I was sure that our host could make any target of his regret the day that they became one.

“Apart from the obvious, why did you say that _we_ might find this case particularly interesting?” I asked. “And where does my annoying brother fit into all this?”

“I myself made some inquiries about Mr. Snow”, Mr. Quinton said. “Your Miss Bradbury was as helpful as always, and she found out that shortly before penning these scurrilous articles he visited a certain government office in Whitehall in which he was richly rewarded for certain 'services'. And he spoke to a certain Mr. Bacchus Holmes.”

I saw at once where this was heading. The general election called by Lord Salisbury and which had indirectly prompted our recent Scottish case had just started; in those days voting was spread over a longer period, then about a month. The newspapers had derisively termed it 'a khaki election', suggesting that the prime minister was aiming to increase his majority after the conclusion of fighting in the recent Second Boer War. As things would turn out the prime minister would be proven all too wise to have gone for an early election; guerrilla warfare at which the Boers excelled would drag the conflict out for a further two years and, incidentally, be fundamental to another of our cases.

“Surely Lord Salisbury himself is not involved?” I asked. 

Mr. Quinton laughed.

“After your mother's reaction to his actions of late”, he said, “it was made clear to your smarmy brother that any further such acts on his part would result in his seeing the Thames from an unusual and terminally wet angle within twenty-four hours!” he said firmly. “Lord Salisbury might be prepared to stand up to Russia and Germany, but not an angry Lady Rebecca Holmes. And in that I fully concur with him!”

“Or she might read him one of her stories”, John muttered. He really was terrible at times!

“The publicity around 'Winter House' was very damaging to the government”, Mr. Quinton smiled, “as it implied that they themselves were not doing enough for our injured soldiers. They were not, but they did not like it being pointed out so your brother's department was charged with making sure that the venture failed, hence Mr. Snow's critical articles. I expect their next move to be the targetting of some or all of the venture's backers, which is unacceptable. I do not wish for this venture to fail.”

“Then it will not”, I said firmly. “A question. Is this Lord Edward Barnes single?”

Mr. Quinton smiled at that.

“Yes”, he said. “That too is something of an issue; he is as I am sure the good doctor knows everything that there is to know about the Earl of Brecknockshire's second son, but his elder brother Edgar is a complete rake and shows no inclination to settle down. Edward has been linked to several local ladies, sometimes at his father's behest and sometimes at his own, bt none have caught his eye as of yet. James is the fourth son; the intervening one Cedric is married and his wife is expecting their first-born next February. The fellow is a likeable nincompoop so one can only hope that their child inherits its looks from him and its brains from its mother!”

“Does Mr. Snow know about Mr. James Barnes' relationship with Mr. Rogers?” I asked.

“Surprisingly he does not”, Mr. Quinton said, “although it cannot be long before he finds that out. Which is another reason that I wish for the matter to be dealt with sooner rather than later.”

“I suppose that the articles by this Mr. Snow implied that Lord Edward's interest was more horizontal than philanthropic?” I hazarded. Our host nodded.

“Utterly fanciful!” he snorted. “There was even a sideways hint that Lord Edward and his brother were committing incest, although it was of course cleverly worded to avoid any legal repercussions.”

“So we must deal with both Mr. Snow and Bacchus”, I mused. “I wonder who should suffer the most?”

It was really uncalled for of a certain pie-eating someone to raise his hand and wave it about like that. As if I did not know which way _he_ would vote!

֍

We did of course detour via a certain bakery shop on the way back to Baker Street and someone pouted most adorably when I refused to let him eat one of the pies that he had purchased right there in the cab. 

I had other plans for that pie.

“Tomorrow”, I said when we had got back to Baker Street, “we shall call on our friend Mr. Latimer. He works as a writer for the _'Times'_ as well as selling his body at Mr. Godfreyson's molly-houses, and he may know something of his fellow journalist.”

“Why not this evening?” John asked.

I grinned, even wider when I saw his sudden alarm.

“I have something else lined up for this evening!”

֍

“Here is the deal”, I told John some time later. “All you have to do is write the dozen or so lines from Shakespeare's Macbeth, Act One Scene One, on that note-pad, and once you are done and it is of course legible then you shall be allowed your pie.”

He was still breathing heavily as he gazed unfocussedly at me. I had used out four-poster frame to hoist his legs up so his gorgeous arse was presented to me, and moved the pillows down the bed so as to support his head. A note-pad and pencil lay next to him and I had applied his leather harness. With the most resistant cock-ring that we had (to date).

The thought struck me that if I did kill him through sex I might have some explaining to do to various people, starting with Mrs. Singer. Then again it would look wonderful on his headstone; sexed to death by an angel wearing only a long-coat!

He picked up his pencil and note-pad and, I noted, was trying to write quickly. He had not seen the jar of spicy unguent that I had placed between his raised legs, and I began to finger him open. The wails and moans as I did so were wondrous, and not for the first (or hopefully last) time I gave thanks to the builders of 'Glendower Mansion' for building such thick walls. 

I knew from the way he was writhing ineffectually that my deliberately avoiding his prostate was driving him mad, and we had arranged a signal beforehand that if he raised either of both of his arms then we would stop. But despite his rapidly increasing breathing he was trying to write, although I doubted that his end-product would be legible. Time to step it up a notch.

I pressed down hard on his prostate and he whined in agony. The cock-ring clicked over one notch; it was designed to yield more as time went on so as to avoid the user rupturing themselves. As I pressed down mercilessly it clicked a second time as well. John's impressive cock was almost vertical now.

I elicited a wonderful full body shudder when I placed our newest pleasurer at his entrance. He knew from the feeling even as it rubbed against his entrance that this was the curved one, which would not so much pleasure his prostate as reduce him to a broken pile of goo. Yet when I hesitated he paused in his writings to nod at me. Gently I worked it in, revelling in every happy cry, every moan, every tremble.

The cock-ring clicked a third time, and only seconds later a fourth. I smiled demonically, reached forward and lightly ran a finger up the length of his leaking cock.

“Come!” I hissed.

And he did, coming apart in glorious cries of ecstasy as he obtained his relief and I milked him through it until he had nothing left. I removed the pleasurer and untied him before easing him back up the bed with his pillows. He stared blearily at me.

“You did not even get to the hurly-burly”, I said. “Still, I think you deserve...”

He was already asleep. My very own sleeping beauty.

֍


	2. Chapter 2

As well as contacting Miss Charlotta Bradbury to put certain plans in motion, I had indeed sent round to Mr. Godfreyson's molly-house to ask if I could borrow Mr. Latimer for some time when he was free. A tall blond fellow in his early thirties and always debonair in appearance he was actually a distant cousin of our dear Queen, descended as he was from one of the illegitimate offspring of King George The First although he looked and acted entirely English. Which given the current status of Anglo-German relations was probably just as well.

“Snow?” he said when I asked him about my target. “Ghastly old fellow, a real rat even in a field full of vermin. They all know him in the business as 'Jumper' Snow.”

“Why?” I asked. “Presumably not for his taste in winter clothing?”

Our visitor smiled and shook his head.

“As in claim-jumper, like those villauns who try to steal other people's claims in the gold fields”, he explained. “Any time someone finds a story they always have to make sure they get it out before he learns of it, otherwise he will steal it.”

I smiled at that.

“If you wish to find him, try the 'Dog & Duck' in Westminster”, Mr. Latimer advised. “He goes there a lot because he knows other journalists meet with politicians in the place as it is just along from the Houses of Parliament. Several of my colleagues make a point of checking to make sure that he is not around whenever they have a pint there, as do I.”

“Does he write for your newspaper?” I asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“Only rarely”, he said. “He mostly does for the _'Telegraph'_ , a pretentious little rag that is far too full of itself.”

“Most useful”, I said. “You have been very helpful, Edward. Thank you for your time.”

I gave him an envelope which had the usual; transport costs, payment for his time and something extra for the information. Mr. Godfreyson had often said that given all that John and I did for his business his boys would help me for free if asked, but I knew that Mr. Latimer in particular had a widowed mother, a wife and three young sons to support. Every penny helped.

֍

Miss Charlotta Bradbury came round the following day, with what was rather unfortunate timing as our kilts had just been returned from the cleaner. Which reminded me; I really needed to ask Mrs. Singer to have a word with her maids. It really was terrible the way that some staff smirked so much these days! 

Our visitor looked at our tartan attire and then at us before shaking her head.

“You two!” she sighed. “You are terrible!”

“Actually I was rather good!” I grinned. “Especially when I did that thing with....”

“No details!” she said firmly. “Remember, I warned you about stopping bacon deliveries here! I could extend that to coffee!”

I mock-zipped my lips, earning myself a quite unjustifiable eye-roll. 

“I do have a contact who works at that newspaper”, she said, “and who can make amendments to stories when called upon. He costs the earth but as this is for the annoying lounge-lizard I am guessing that you will not exactly worry about that.”

“A correct assumption”, I said. “Now we just need to bait the trap.”

֍

The following day I again secured the services of Mr. Latimer who along with Devon from the house went down to the 'Dog & Duck' to talk about a certain news item that I wished Mr. Snow to take an interest in. Mr. Latimer told Devon (to the very visible interest of someone who was almost leaning over the partition at one point) that Mr. Reeves, a minor government minister, was in the habit of visiting 'Winter House' for certain, ahem, horizontal reasons and that Mr. Latimer hoped that a servant of that gentlemen who he knew would confirm this. 

Mr. Latimer came round later that day to let us know what had happened, and John was able to treat him for a slight sprain that he had obtained in his work (my love spent more time dealing with the various molly-men and their families than his paying patients, but he loved the philanthropic nature of that work and few if any of them could have afforded a doctor). The bait had been taken; Mr. Snow had been seen rushing to Mr. Reeves' house where, I knew, he would 'just happen' to encounter that very same servant (an actor friend of mine) leaving the house. An encounter which, for the unpleasant 'Jumper' Snow, would be an ultimately unpleasant one.

֍

The very next day John and I had a visitor to Baker Street, to wit Mr. Quentin Jones. Unbeknown to him he pretty much owed his recently-acquired position as Bacchus' superior to my actions following the Flaxen Saxon case. He was an unprepossessing fellow of just over forty years of age although I knew that in his sort of department looks could be deceptive. Miss Bradbury had opined that his only redeeming character was that he was not someone that she longed to push into the Thames with lead weights attached (she had for some reason looked at me as if expecting me to discourage such feelings).

“Good morning, Mr. Jones”, I said brightly.

He scowled at us both.

“It is _far_ from a good morning, sir!” he snapped. “Have you seen the newspapers today?”

“The doctor has, I am sure, read the social pages”, I snipped, earning myself an adorable pout for which someone would pay dearly once our guest was gone. Twice if he was lucky.

“Mr. Rees has been accused of visiting a brothel out in the country!” Mr. Jones said angrily. “The prime minister is _furious_ what with the election ongoing. He was expecting to increase his majority considerably but this will ruin things. He expects the newspaper to print a full retraction....”

“Is the accusation not true then?” I asked innocently.

“Certainly not!”

I looked hard at him.

“It seems to have been a confusion with Mr. Reeves”, he said, rather defensively I thought. “And it is not a brothel at all, just a house for wounded soldiers.”

“But the publicity will be _very_ bad”, I said. “And even if the newspaper can be prevailed upon to print a retraction before many more votes are cast, we all know that it will be in small print on Page Twenty-Seven beneath the advertisements for ladies' cycle wear. Plus of course many will wheel out that old canard about there being no smoke without fire. I am afraid that Lord Salisbury will surely want someone's head for this. There is nothing like a forced resignation for lancing a political boil, and politicians are always more than happy when someone else pays the price for their mistakes. Especially when it is not someone in their own party.”

Mr. Jones shuddered.

“Of course”. I said with a bright and totally false smile, _“I_ might be prevailed upon to help.”

Our visitor looked sharply at me.

“Why would you do that?” he asked warily.

“Every man has his price”, I said. “I happen to know a little of the gentleman in charge of this Buckinghamshire establishment, although we have never met. If say, it were to emerge that the government had been secretly negotiating with him to _considerably_ enlarge his noble venture so that more of our brave men could receive the help that they need..... I am sure that he might be persuaded to tell the newspapers that that was the real reason for a government minister being in the area and that the subterfuge was to avoid it being seen as an election gimmick. And maybe certain newspapers might then decide to make this a lead story before the election.”

Mr. Jones' wariness had only increased.

“And your price?” he asked.

“One that I think _you_ will not mind paying at all”, I said, “as it is of no cost to you personally. Indeed it might almost be said to benefit you, at least in the sense of what I believe the Germans call _schadenfreude_.”

֍

A few days later we had three visitors to Baker Street; Lord Edward Barnes, his brother Mr. James Barnes and the American Mr. Steven Rogers. All three were pleasant-looking young men in their twenties; Mrs. Singer had very kindly arranged for us to borrow a ground-floor room as I knew that Mr. James Barnes in particular had difficulty walking and would have found the stairs a problem. I did not fail to note how close and attentive Mr. Rogers was to his friend.

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes”, Lord Edward smiled. “The government has paid for us to triple the size of the house facilities so that more of my brave brother's friends can be properly attended to. It is quite wonderful.”

“Lord Salisbury was doubtless most pleased with the article in which you publicly thanked him”, I said, “especially with so much voting still to take place. Almost everyone has come out of this well, all told.”

“What about that horrible fellow who wrote those articles?” Mr. Barnes asked. His voice was hoarse and John handed him a whisky. Mr. Rogers was now all but hugging him.

“Mr. Snow is out of a job”, I said. “Newspapers are not inclined to employ someone who passes on misinformation, and who does not check their facts. Such people expose them to the sort of monetary actions that could ruin them.”

“May I ask how you did it?” Lord Edward asked.

“I paid someone at the _'Telegraph'_ to change a name on Mr. Snow's article”, I explained. “I would be sorry for Mr. Reeves but then he is a most unpleasant person from what I know, and if Mr. Rees will conduct illicit liaisons out in the countryside then he must expect to pay the price.”

“You did not say what you did to your idiot brother”, John protested.

“I arranged with Mr. Jones for him to be re-assigned to a case of potential terrorism”, I said airily.

They all looked at me in confusion.

“Certain documents handed to the government suggested that a company owned by one Mrs. Roberta O'Malley had links to Irish terrorists”, I said. “A very topical issue just now. So copies of all letters sent to and received by her have been obtained by Mr. Jones and Bacchus has been instructed to go through each and every one, line by line, to see if there is any evidence of such. He will be required to make thorough notes on all of them.”

“That does not sound like much of a punishment”, John said, clearly disappointed. I grinned.

“Mrs. Roberta O'Malley is the lady who collects what might be called 'incoming works'”, I smiled.

They all looked at me in confusion.

“As you know”, I said to John, “my mother not only writes the most terrible stories and, incredibly, has a club for her fellow literary criminals, but has now extended her activities to encouraging those who enjoy her work to write their own efforts and then post them to her. She calls it 'fan fiction' which, considering that fan is an abbreviation of fanatic, may be all too close to the truth. Mrs. O'Malley's company receives hundreds of letters each month, many of them containing scripts. Some, even more incredibly, are according to Miss Bradbury worse that those of the inimitable 'Becky Rosen'.”

Mr. Barnes went even paler. Even Mr. Rogers looked alarmed.

“As in the Becky Rosen who wrote about what the Ancient Romans really did in the Temple of Vesta?” the American gasped in horror. “I would rather face a horde of rampaging Zulus than read anything like that again!”

“At least you did not get the one about the pirates and the sex-mad octopus!” Mr. Barnes said, somehow nestling in even closer to his friend. “Every time I saw the pirate flag back at the barracks I wanted to throw up!”

“The very same”, I said, offering up silent thanks for my having 'missed' those particular horrors along with a firm determination to continue 'missing' them. “And Bacchus will have to read and then make notes on _hundreds_ of such tales. It might even keep him out of mischief for a time.”

I could see John wondering if that was perhaps just too cruel. And I could see the exact moment when he reached the inevitable conclusion, and smiled broadly.

Not. A. Chance!

֍

_Postscriptum: 'Winter House' was a great success and eventually Mr. Barnes and Mr. Rogers took over the running of it. The government duly won its election although not with the greatly increased majority that it had been hoping for. And Bacchus was reduced to sending me letters asking for help on cases as, he said, he was too busy with 'certain other matters' to come round. I do not know how we coped with the terrible disappointment._

_We coped._

֍


End file.
